One of the great injustices of late 20th-century film criticism was the near universal drubbing dished out to Kenneth Branagh's Frankenstein in the 90s. Recalling the debacle, Branagh once told me that the question he was most regularly asked in the wake of the film's release was: "What are you going to do now that your career is over?" Those of us who had the gall to praise Frankenstein for its gloriously overcooked melodramatic aesthetic (a quality entirely in keeping with Mary Shelley's source novel) were laughed out of court by those toeing the consensus line. It wasn't until the release of the (then futuristic) laserdisc edition that the mainstream critics started to admit that they might have got it wrong after all.

The same qualities that made Frankenstein such a delight lie at the heart of Thor (2011, Paramount, 12), a comic-book adaptation which similarly brought Branagh first ridicule and then plaudits, albeit in rather swifter fashion. The derision that greeted the announcement that he was directing the project soon turned to admiration when it transpired that Branagh had deftly conjured a silk purse from a sow's ear, creating a thoroughly enjoyable and deceptively witty mainstream blockbuster from a problematic source.

As a Marvel strip, Thor never made much sense, its visions of an exiled Norse god yomping around with his unwieldy hammer lacking the necessary superhero zing and being, frankly, a bit silly. The triumph of Branagh's movie, which comes replete with Frost Giants, battles in heaven and unexpected visits to the local pet shop, is not so much that he recognises the foolishness of the original material, but rather that he balances any self-aware mockery with a terrifically straight-faced dose of operatic high camp.

Tonally, it's not a million miles away from the director's little seen adaptation of The Magic Flute, which featured large women in heavily armoured breastplates storming across theatrical sets in tanks in a manner that would bring a lusty smile to the face of Ken Russell. A solid supporting cast, headed by Stellan Skarsgård and Natalie Portman, allows Chris Hemsworth to go for gold as Thor, while Anthony Hopkins does a terrific job of making even Odin's most menial aside seem laced with world-shattering import. In cinemas, Thor was presented in 3D, which did no favours to the well-designed Valhalla sequences; a 3D Blu-ray disc is available, but why bother when the movie's unfashionably bright designs look so delightful in flatscreen high definition? Extras (sprinkled across different formats) include commentaries, deleted scenes and a "Road to the Avengers" featurette which reminds us that this entire project is part of a protracted preamble to the forthcoming franchise mothership. All the more remarkable, then, that Branagh has somehow made the movie his own.

Few British stars are as reliable as Jason Statham, a hard-working screen stalwart whose films typically deliver head-cracking violence, top-flight designer stubble and homoerotic shirt-off action. In Blitz (2011, Lionsgate, 18), "the Stath" plays a "cop on the edge" (stop me if you've heard this one) who teams up with Paddy Considine's by-the-book gay sidekick to take down Aidan Gillen's psychotic killer. While Jason barely breaks sweat, Considine and Gillen are pretty much on fire throughout, embracing the opportunity to let rip with a palpable sense of glee. Director Elliott Lester sprinkles an attractively glossy sheen over the ludicrous London-bound antics and ensures that bones get crunched at regular intervals. Meanwhile, David Morrissey lurks in the background as a newspaper man of dubious morals, lending what one may charitably call a topical note to the otherwise timelessly dubious proceedings.

The press notes for talented Lee Sales's debut feature Turnout (2011, Revolver, 18) promise "a slice of London life like you've never seen before", which assumes that potential audiences will somehow have missed the plethora of low-budget Brit pics about geezers ducking and diving their drug-fuelled way through assorted pubs and car parks wearing tasty tops and saying "faaak" every other word. The difference this time is that wide boy George (co-writer George Russo) owes money not to a gangster but to his girlfriend, played by Ophelia Lovibond, last seen alongside Jim Carrey in Mr Popper's Penguins. Sidelined appearances from reliable performers such as Neil Maskell (excellent in Kill List) and Ben Drew (aka Plan B) merely heighten the sense of disappointment. Apparently this started life as a short film; perhaps it should have stayed that way.

Calling a film Atrocious (2010, Revolver, 15) is asking for trouble, particularly when the movie in question is the latest in an increasingly dreary line of faux "found footage" mockumentary shockers, a genre that has long since run its course. This Spanish-Mexican production sends a family to a rambling house in Sitges, presumably in an attempt to jump on the coat-tails of the celebrated international horror festival. All proceeds entirely as expected; some needlessly elongated establishing footage of a brother and sister doing not very much other than learning about a local urban legend, followed by much Blair Witch-y running around the woods with obligatory sub-[Rec] night vision nonsense thrown in for good measure. Somewhere around the midway point the initial story about a lost girl in a red coat is jettisoned in a manner that suggests the film-makers simply forgot where they had started. If you want to see someone doing something interesting with the world-weary found footage gag, check out the Norwegian romp Troll Hunter. As for this, file not under "atrocious" but "unnecessary".

This article was amended on Monday 26 September. Due to a production error, Frankenstein was wrongly attributed to Mary Wollstonecraft instead of Mary Shelley. Our apologies to Mark Kermode